


Nahlot Zul

by awerewolf



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Miraak gets to do all the talking, mute character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-10 09:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12296184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awerewolf/pseuds/awerewolf
Summary: A mute dragonborn meets Miraak, and overcomes Hermaeus Mora.





	1. Prologue

“Beg for your life, dragonborn.”

Briar felt eerily calm as the man twice her size lifted her, one hand clutching her bicep and the other curled painfully under her jaw. He wasn’t choking her, but she felt as if her head might pop off from being dragged down by her own weight. She could only see his eyes through the golden mask, dark like her own mer eyes but different.

When she did not reply, the hand under her jaw began applying pressure. “I wonder if it is defiance or obliviousness that you refuse to speak to me. Tell me what you thought to accomplish by coming here. Did you seek to murder me here, in Apocrypha, where I have dwelled longer than you have existed?”

If she could’ve spoken, she would’ve told him that she wanted to see what kind of man sent two followers against someone with the soul of a dragon in a heavily populated city with well trained guards. If she could’ve spoken, she would’ve said that she was not motivated by revenge, but curiosity. The words did not, and could not come. They were not stuck in her throat by slight but uncomfortable pressure of his hand. They simply existed only in her mind. Her last words were spoken in very young childhood, before they were squeezed from her throat by someone full of hatred.

Now, hands were at her throat again. She closed her eyes and saw the face from before, over a hundred years in the past. She swallowed hard and suddenly Miraak gave her a shake. Her teeth clicked together painfully and her eyes opened.

“Are you losing consciousness?” He scoffed. “I’ve barely touched you.”

She tried to shake her head but his grip was too tight. Feeling her resistance, he dropped her to the floor. She landed hard on her knees, and her hands went out to sooth the ache away as he stared down at her.

“Speak, dragonborn.” He repeated, and she could only shake her head in reply. “You will not? What kind of dragon refuses to speak?”

She shook her head again. She pointed to the mouth of her own mask, and shook her head once more.

“I see. You cannot speak.” He laughed. “What _thu’um_ could a speechless dragon possible possess?”

Irritation welled up in her. The dragon tongue was different than that of man, and Miraak should’ve known this. The words, the power, came directly from her _Sil_ , her soul. She could not speak, but she could shout.

She struggled to her feet and he watched with interest. She found the word in her mind, felt it in her soul, but only managed to shout “ _Fo!_ ” before he reached out and grabbed her neck again, fingers digging under her jaw and forcing her mouth shut. His other hand reached out as if to pull off her mask, before withdrawing. A thin coat of frost covered him, but he seemed to pay it no mind.

“Interesting.” His fingers dug in deeper. “But not something I will concern myself with.”

His own shout tossed her backwards, and suddenly she found herself back in Solstheim.


	2. Hermaeus Mora

Briar was an extraordinarily calm and patient person. She often wondered if it was because she could not speak, could not constantly interject with her own ideas and opinions like many people did.  She did not tire of listening to most people, but she did tire of listening to some. Hermaeus Mora was one of them.

The first time they met, he was frustrated by her inability to speak. He offered to probe her mind, hear her thoughts, and she refused. He was agitated. The Prince of Knowledge would never know what she thought, and she knew he hated it.

In a moment of poor judgement, he used a power to restore her ability to speak. It had been so long she had forgotten how, but she managed to croak the word “monster” before he silenced her again.

When she rejected his offer to become his champion, she thought he would kill her. His disgusting form shook with rage, and he told her that her fate was not her own.

Some months later, she found herself in Solstheim and her skin crawled as she thought of facing the Daedric Prince once again. He was not the only one of the princes she met, in fact she had managed to get tangled up in the affairs of… well, all of them. Even Molag Bal did not disturb her so much as Hermaeus Mora did. Molag Bal was wild, carnal, full of hatred and malice, and things she could understand. Hermaeus Mora was full of traps, lures, and pits to fall into.

It was not revenge that fueled her trip to Solstheim, but curiosity. Stepping off the boat, she expected the area to be filled with Miraak’s cult, but instead she only found brainwashed dunmer and a miserable people without a livelihood.

The people of Solstheim treated her well. She was a bosmer, not a dunmer, but they called her “sister” all the same. They were helpful and forgiving of her silence. Neloth, curious and unaware of when he was stepping over his boundaries, attempted a few spells he was certain would “cure” her. They did nothing but give her a terrible cough.

Frea and the Skaal tried to be polite, but she could sense their distaste. She was an elf, and not even one they were familiar with. Many of them simply called her “elf,” since she could not give them her name. She scowled each time it was said. She preferred “dragonborn” to being simply called “elf.”

Briar still held a grudging respect for the Skaal. They reminded her a bit of her family in Valenwood who were long gone… although naturally the Skaal were more human. Briar’s father had passed of old age more than a human’s lifetime ago, and her mother before even that. She had been an only child, and a handful, especially after the loss of her voice. She wondered what her parents would think if they had known she was Dragonborn. They always said she had a wild soul, but it was wilder than they thought.

Briar sat in Neloth’s home in Tel Mithryn, running her fingers over the Black Book they had just brought back from Nchardak. She knew reading the book would return her to Apocrypha. The prospect of seeing Miraak again did not bother her, it was the ruler of that domain that haunted her. She knew every second she spent in Apocrypha was a second spent under the watchful eye of Mora. She knew he wanted her dead, dead so she could be under his control forever.

Returning to Apocrypha was a risk, one that left her feeling unsure of herself, which was not a familiar sensation for her. Still, she needed to return. Miraak planned on escaping from Apocrypha, and she did not know what he planned for after but she knew it could not be good. With his cult and brainwashed slaves building those stones for him, she did not know what to think.

“If you’re not going to read that book, then you might as well make yourself useful.” Neloth snapped from across the room. “I have plenty of frost salts that need grinding down for my alchemical experiments.”

Briar rubbed her fingers together, the universal sign for coin.

“What, you want me to pay you?” He scoffed. “You’re the one loitering around my house, eating my food, distracting my apprentice.” She looked over at the young mer and Talvas quickly glanced away, returning to some work he didn’t seem to have started on. “The least you could do is be a little helpful around here.”

Briar held up the Black Book, giving it a little shake.

“You could do that, as well. Whatever you can glean from that book would be useful for the both of us, provided you don’t get yourself killed.”

She sighed and leaned back, flipping open the cover of the book. Oddly, the tome seemed worn and well-read. She wondered how many people had read it before her.

_Bring you forth the lovestruck mute who preys with vigor on his love, and set the sky alight with all who dare to struggle 'gainst our move. For we are they who own the night and all who dwell without us fall; we drink the mind-grapes formed of thought and wail a tumult on the wall. To sweep-_

The words stuck in her mind as she choked on the musty, stagnant air of Apocrypha. Were they meant for her? What did Mora know?

Apocrypha stunk of mildew and wet books. The few books she picked up out of curiosity, the pages had stuck to her fingers and some even had running ink. She found pity in her heart for Miraak, forced to live in such a dreadful place for so long. Death would be better, cleaner.

The dark oily water of the realm disgusted her, and when she saw strange eyes emerge from the water to peek at her she found herself running. She could always rely on her magic, and she dispatched Mora’s minions with fire and lightening before finding a dry place away from the water to calm down and think.

Miraak wasn’t in this part of Apocrypha. His curiosity was as great as her own, she knew, which was how he managed to get stuck in this awful plain in the first place. She knew he could not resist poking her for what differences there were between the two of them, both being dragonborn.

Mora, on the other hand, was everywhere. She could feel him as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. He was watching, his eyes soaking in every bit of information about her he could gather. He was likely memorizing her walk patterns and stature, the difference between the way she wielded her magic and her dagger, but most importantly he was observing how his plain unnerved her. The information probably delighted him.

She fought down her nausea, breathing, but it was difficult to regain her composure when the air was so thick and humid. She missed the air of Solstheim, cold with the comforting smell of ash and dirt. She missed the smell of Skyrim, the crisp cold chill stinging her throat and the scent of wild pine. More than all that, she missed her home of Valenwood. She missed the warm spring air, the smell of rain covered grass and mud, and the scent of cooking meat in the distance guiding her home. She missed the smell of her father’s rough cotton tunic when he hugged her, and the scent of wood polish on a newly carved bow.

She opened her eyes and found herself calmed by her thoughts of home. Although she was not certain she would ever return, she knew she would not remain in Apocrypha forever. Hermaeus Mora could not have her.

She returned to her trek through his labyrinth and finally met the demon himself. He hovered over the book, her only means of escape, and reached out with his strange appendages. She flinched away and he laughed, drawing back into himself.

“You cannot speak, and so you must listen.” His eyes bared down on her. “I know what it is that you seek. I’ve been watching you, after all, but you already know that, don’t you? You seek the means by which to defeat Miraak.” This wasn’t entirely true, although she could see how he came to this conclusion. “Your friends among the Skaal believe that Miraak’s return would herald disaster for the world, and you seek to help. However, you cannot hope to defeat Miraak without knowing what he knows.”

She refused to move, and kept her face expressionless behind her mask. The mask was her shield against Mora.

“The words. The powerful words that can bend another to one’s will. Your shout is incomplete, dragonborn.”

She did not see how the Bend Will shout would help her, but allowed Mora to continue to accidentally feed her information.

“I will give you the words. I will put them in your mind.” She had not noticed a tentacle come close until it was too late, and it brushed her hair back from her forehead, touching the side of her head in a mocking caress. “In exchange, I want to know what the Skaal know. They have secrets they have managed to keep from me for many a millennium. When they are mine, your information will belong to you too.”

She continued to stand still, and a moment of silence passed between the two of them before a laugh cracked out from the creature, terrible and loud.

“And you thought you could avoid me. You thought you could reject me.” His eyes, angry, glared down at her. “I _am_ fate, silent one. You belonged to me from the moment of your birth, as do all.”

A bright light passed over her eyes and she was once again in Tel Mithryn. Neloth sat across from her, a notepad in his hand.

“Oh, you’re back.” He set the notes in his lap. “That was an odd trance you went into. I could not resist a little research.” He cleared his throat. “Anyhow, I imagine you met with Hermaeus Mora? Did he have anything interesting to offer?”

She picked up an apple from the table and passed it from one hand to another, hoping that he would catch what she was saying.

“An exchange, then?” She nodded, and pointed to her temple. “An exchange of knowledge. Interesting. I thought Hermaeus Mora knew everything. What is it that he doesn’t know?”

Unsure how to show him with her hands, she took his notes and scribbled SKAAL in messy, unpracticed letters.

“Ugh. Now I’ll have to retake these.” He glanced at what she wrote. “What, the Skaal know something old Hermaeus Mora doesn’t? Probably nothing particularly interesting or worth knowing, anyhow.”

Neloth eyed her. “I can’t imagine this will be easy to explain to the Skaal without your voice. I will make you a deal. Let me try once more to cure your silence, and if it doesn’t work, I’ll write a letter for you. Your penmanship is dreadful.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Good. I’ve had a few ideas.” He went over to his alchemy table and began work on something. She sighed, laying her forehead on the table. She hated being Neloth’s test subject, and wished he would leave it well enough alone. He seemed to be as frustrated at not knowing her thoughts as Mora was.

After a moment, Neloth returned with a small cup of some glowing red substance. “Drink it quick, before it cools. It’s more potent when it’s hot.”

Grimacing, Briar gulped down the mysterious concoction in one go. It was so hot it nearly burned her mouth, and it sat heavy and uncomfortable in her stomach.

“Go on, try to say something.” Neloth prompted. “I’d start with, ‘Thank you, Master Neloth. You are so smart and handsome, and I could not possibly express my gratitude to you.’ Or just ‘Thank you,’ would be a nice start.”

She opened her mouth, trying to force some kind of sound out instead of sharp breaths, and quickly closed it as her stomach churned dangerously. She waited a moment and attempted to speak again, but instead she vomited on the floor and nearly fell out of the chair from her head swimming.

“Talvas! Come clean up this mess!” Neloth’s voice sounded ten times as loud, and she clapped her hands over her ears, the room spinning, before she finally lost consciousness.

 

She awoke some time later, although she wasn’t sure exactly how long, on a bedroll somewhere in Tel Mithryn. Telvas was sitting nearby, thumbing through an old spellbook. He looked up and jumped.

“Oh! Oh, good, you’re okay. I mean- okay enough to be awake, at least.” He closed the book and leaned forward. “I was worried. Master Neloth was too, but he wouldn’t ever say so. He told me to watch you, in case you did anything interesting. I think he just wanted to make sure he didn’t accidentally kill you.”

Her head hurt, bad enough that her teeth ached and the weight of her hair on her scalp felt like too much. She pressed a closed fist to her forehead to indicate pain.

“I can make you something for that.” Telvas nodded. “In the meantime, there’s a full washbasin here. The water’s gone cold, but you can warm it however you’d like with your magic. Everyone else is already asleep, so if you need something you’ll have to ask me.”

She inclined her head at him.

“I mean, I usually stay up late to study anyway so I… I’ll just leave you to your bath. I’ll be just out here once you’re finished.”

He scurried away, embarrassed. She stood on weak legs and found the washbasin. It was bigger than she expected, just big enough for her to sit instead of stand while she washed. She warmed the water only slightly, just enough that the cold did not sting. After pulling off her clothes, she sat in the barely cold water, wetting the washcloth that had been draped over the side and pulling it over her eyes to block out the faint magic light in the room.

Once she recovered from Neloth’s poison cure, which she hoped would be within the hour, she would head out to the Skaal village. The sooner this business was dealt with, the better. She did not want to linger under the eye of Hermaeus Mora longer than necessary.

There was no leftover stench from her trip to Apocrypha, for she was not entirely sure whether her trips had been physical or not. Still, washing felt infinitely better. It was also the first time she had removed her mask in a while. While an open face helped her with communicating, it left her with a strange vulnerable feeling. Miraak wore a mask as well. She wondered if it was something of the dragon soul that resided within them, causing them to hide their faces as they did.

She did not linger too long in the bath, as she was eager to get rid of her headache. She pulled on her clothes, leaving her armor for later, and after a moment decided to leave the mask as well. When she entered the main room of Tel Mithryn, Telvas was pouring over his book again, a sipping occasionally from a cup in his hand.

He looked up and nearly dropped his cup. “I- You-“ He stopped, staring. “I have a potion for you, for your head.” He grabbed it up and came across the room to give it to her. She nodded in thanks as she sipped it. “You’re not wearing your mask.”

She shook her head. She shook the empty potion bottle, then placed her hand on her mouth, and extended her hand downwards towards him. His mouth fell open.

“You- You want me to kiss you?!”

Her eyes bulged and she shook her head furiously, turning away.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to misunderstand!” He said, but she was out of the room returning the mask to her face and pulling on her armor. The pain in her head was gone by the time she finished, and she quickly left Tel Mithryn, unable to look at Telvas as she passed him.

 

Snow fell heavy on the Skaal village that night, and her heart was heavy too. Mora, in his treachery, had killed Storn. Frea sobbed over the body of her father, and Briar wanted to reach out to her, but she knew it would do no good. She was just another dragonborn, silent and foreign, bringing death with one hand and salvation in the other. Mora deserved to be punished for the pain he had wrought.

Briar reached out and gently pulled the Black Book from Storn’s hand. She held the book tight in her fingers as she wandered some distance from the village, hoping to keep Mora as far from them as possible. Then she opened it.

Apocrypha from the dragon’s back was no less ugly and disturbing. She knew she would have to fight Miraak. He was desperate, and thought her death would bring him the freedom he sought. Briar doubted that, even with her soul, Mora would allow him to leave.

And so the First Dragonborn faced the Last Dragonborn.

The battle was hard. His thu’um was mighty and every time she thought she had him weakened, he sacrificed one of his dragons to gain more power. She threw fireballs until she ran out of magicka, and finally resorted to slashing at him with her daggers. Miraak was a powerful mage, but he had his own sword at his side.

Tentacles lashed out at her and cut through the skin of her legs though her robes, pulling her down. He swung his sword again and once again, tentacles lashed out, slicing at her like a thousand knives. On her back, she could see Hermaeus Mora watching it all.

Miraak stepped closer and Briar swung her legs, bringing him down to the ground as well. She lunged forward, crawling over his legs in one smooth motion and plunging her dagger into his belly. He grunted, and suddenly she wished for a longer dagger or a sword. She pulled it out to plunge it in again when he grasped her wrist with breaking strength, tossing her off of him.

He climbed on top of her, lightening cracking in his hand. “Fate decreed you have to die for me to win my freedom.” He looked down at her with dark eyes. “Speak, if you can. Speak and I will end you quickly.”

Had she not been wearing her mask, she would’ve spit in his face. She rolled her body, tossing him backwards off of her. She swung her arms in an arc, fire gathering around herself, and cloaked the two of them in fire, but only he burned.

As suddenly as he caught fire, he was out. Miraak shouted with relief, but it was short lived. Hermaeus Mora lifted his former champion from the floor, tossing him in the air like a doll and stabbing his shoulders with sharp tentacles, holding him up like a caught insect.

Briar huffed with defiance, and reached into her pack at her last ditch effort against the Daedric Prince.

“Did you think you could escape me, Miraak?” Hermaeus Mora snarled, a thousand eyes gleaming down from Apocrypha’s haunted sky, and one large eye in particular in front of Miraak. “You can hide nothing from me here! No matter… I have found another dragonborn to serve me!”

A ringing sound turned Mora’s eye, and Auriel’s bow shined in Briar’s hand just as she fired a sunhallowed elven arrow directly into the eye.

Mora screamed, more with a poisonous fury than pain. All of his tentacles pulled back, and Miraak dropped into the shallow pool below. Mora stuck at Briar all at once, and she rolled out of the way, loosing another arrow at the second largest eye.

She ran towards Miraak, gripping his arm and trying to pull him to his feet. She was going to escape, and as a final knife in Mora’s wound, she would take his champion with her.

Miraak choked, regaining his breath and then laughing. “You have attacked a Daedric Prince.” He shook his head. “Now we both die.”

Briar shook her head. No, she was using the bow of Auriel, also named Akatosh. If any deity owned the two of them, it was him. She loosed arrow after arrow, the sun’s light exploding around them as Mora screamed.

She loosed her final arrow and a blast hit the both of them from the front. She gripped the shoulder of Miraak’s robes in one hand and the bow in the other, refusing to let go, as both of them tumbled backwards and into a clean, clear light.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a decent amount of ASL, and I knew it would come in handy one day. I don't think Nirn would use /American/ Sign Language, though, nor do I think it would be widely taught. So I do have signs I made up.
> 
> The sign she did at Telvas was a sign in ASL, though. "Thank you" looks like you're blowing a kiss towards the person you're thankful to.


	3. Wounds

Miraak awoke, and was blinded.

At first, he thought he had traded one hell for another, but after his eyes adjusted and he glanced around, he knew he was in Solstheim. The day was bright, even brighter to his eyes which had long adjusted to the darkness of Apocrypha. He was laying on a bedroll in a neatly set up tent, his wounds dressed and his robe open, but his mask was still on.

He could see her through the flap of the tent outside, back towards him, doing something.

Once the fool began attacking Hermaeus Mora, Miraak was sure the Daedric Prince would simply kill them both to rid himself of their trouble. She must have done something, cast some spell or shouted something that he did not notice, because they had returned and there was no sign of his old master anywhere.

He sat up, giving a gentle prod to his wounds. Either she had done well healing him, or he had been unconscious for quite some time. Either way, it did not matter. He wanted to know why. He would demand it of her, squeeze the silence from her throat if that’s what it took.

He stood, his legs weaker than he could ever recall them feeling, and felt the ground under his bare feet for the first time in a very long time. He swallowed hard, fighting the feeling welling up in his chest, and pushed open the tent flap.

She was sitting on a stump near a fire, fletching an arrow. She did not turn.

“Why?” Miraak asked at her back.

She turned her face a little towards him and sighed, before turning back.

“I am tired of your silence.” He trudged toward her. “Speak, you insipid fool.” As he took his last step he felt a prick and realized she had turned the arrow towards him, and he had stabbed himself. He felt a surge of annoyance. He stared at her mask and wondered if his own was as frustrating, but he did not face people with silence.

Then, much to his surprise, she reached up and took it off.

She was an elf. Her features were both angular and soft by equal measures. Her skin was light and freckled. Her hair was long and dark, and her eyes were darker still. Dark as only mer eyes could be.

She gestured to him, and then moved her fingers in a wiggling fashion, and then squeezed the same hand into a fist.

“You wanted to take me from Hermaeus Mora?” He scoffed. “To what end?”

She squeezed her fist again, and pounded it into the open palm of her other hand.

“To hurt him?” Miraak shook his head. “I doubt he feels hurt by any of this. More, he’s probably furious.” He eyed her. Bosmer, he guessed. Her long ears peeked out of her hair. She was too small to be an altmer, and her skin wasn’t right for a dunmer. “He’ll find us, you know. He will kill us both. Painfully.”

She shrugged, angling her eyebrows at him. Reading her was much simpler without the mask. Her face said it all. She was asking if he was afraid.

“I am not afraid. However, I would prefer not to have my limbs torn off by Hermaeus Mora and left to bleed to death.” He stated. “I’m not sure what he would plan for you. He would probably rid you of your senses, until you were killed by wolves or stumbled off the edge of a cliff.”

She shrugged and went back to her arrows. He still did not feel satisfied.

“But why did you save me?” He struggled to find the words. “You did not have to… do this.” He gestured to his bandages. “You could have left me. Hermaeus Mora would not have me either way.”

She turned and looked at him, dark eyes piercing him, before shaking her head.

“Perhaps you should learn to be more cruel.” He frowned. “Such acts of selflessness will not serve you as well as you think.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Cruelty has served me well enough.” He crossed his arms. “I am the most powerful dragonborn who has ever lived, and I have escaped from Hermaeus Mora’s clutches.”

Her shoulders shook and she let out a few rapid puffs of air in a silent laugh.

“Laugh if you wish. I know I am correct.”

He stood next to her, feeling the warmth of the fire. It was a natural, comforting warmth. It was not something he had felt in so long.

“What if I left right now?” He asked, looking down at her. She looked up at him and made a shooing gesture with her hand. “You would not follow?”

She shook her head. He stared at her for another moment and then she reached out, pulling at the bandage around his abdomen. He turned, letting her look.

This was her wound, not Hermaeus Mora’s. She had been fierce in their battle. If Hermaeus Mora had not interrupted, she likely would’ve killed him. The thought… did not bother him as much as he thought it would.

Suddenly her fingers brushed something tender and he hissed, pulling back. She stood, pulling his bandage back up and pushing him back in the tent. He allowed it. He would not object to having his wounds treated. His return to the world should be done in full health.

She pushed his shoulder, indicating he should lay back on the bedroll. He did so with little fuss, and she dug around in a small pouch on her side. She pulled a few strange herbs from it and began to make a poultice. He examined her face as she did so.

There had been many Dragonborn before her. Staying trapped in Apocrypha did not keep him uninformed. There had been women Dragonborn in the past, so that did not surprise him. What did was that she was not human. If he was correct, all Dragonborn after him had been human, even if they were not nords. She could very well be the first mer Dragonborn. It stuck him as curious, why the one who would appear and defeat Alduin would be an elf.

She did defeat Alduin. He did not doubt her prowess in battle, although perhaps he did underestimate her at first. No weakling could’ve conquered the World-Eater himself. Initially, he had simply believed himself to be stronger, but laying on the bedroll while she treated wounds that she herself inflicted, he knew that they were evenly matched at least. It did not sting to acknowledge it.

He would’ve rather been killed by her hand than Hermaeus Mora’s, at least. Better to die in battle with another Dragonborn than slain after being weakened by that worm after living in servitude for thousands of years.

She pressed the poultice to his wound and there was an odd warmth, slightly uncomfortable, before the sensation went away and she had him sit up so she could bandage him properly. She snapped her fingers then to get his attention. She made a claw with her hand and mimicked scratching at her own abdomen, and then wagged her finger at him. He nodded.

She scooted over to the other side of the tent, where another bedroll lay, and put her pack beside her. She then pulled her robes up her legs, and he could see her own wounds- the ones he had inflicted. Cuts slashed all across her legs, like she had gone wading through a sea of daggers. The more severe ones had been neatly stitched, and she took rubbed a pale pink paste across them. She then pulled out a thick, hook shaped needle and a thread. She reached across to him.

He wordlessly took them from her and she turned over, laying belly-down on her bedroll, and kept her robe at an appropriate level to preserve her modesty. The backs of her legs were slashed up as well, and she treated them as well as she seemed to be able, but there were large cuts she was unable to reach and effectively stitch.

Normally, Miraak would’ve laughed and left her wounds to fester, but she did pull him out of Apocrypha and treat his wounds. There was a measure of debt there, and it did not sit well with him not to repay it at least somewhat.

He adjusted his position to sit closer to her and started on a deep cut in the back of her thigh. She had not applied or drank anything for the pain, he noticed. It was also a good thing that she could not see the areas he was treating, because it had been a very long time since he had to perform any kind of task like this. The needle seemed to be crafted for stitching flesh, so he did not have to pinch and dig. His stitches were still sloppy, though.

Throughout the process, she did not make a single sound. No moans or hisses of pain. No yells or screams. Perhaps she truly was voiceless. Soon his fingertips were slick with blood and she pointed him to a small bowl of water, achingly cold, where he doused his fingers before finishing the next few, smaller cuts.

When he finished, he sat back and set the needle down by her pack, returning to his own bedroll to lay back down. His abdomen ached and itched, but he kept his hands away as instructed. She slicked her hands with the pink paste and rubbed it on the backs of her legs before pulling her robes back down and returning to the outside of the tent, presumably to return to her arrows.

He was unsure of what to make of this odd situation he found himself in. He could not stay long, he knew that. He only planning on staying long enough to recuperate. Still, he wondered why she was going through so much trouble. He had made an enemy out of her, or so he thought. He had challenged her, humiliated her, and lost their final battle. She wanted to spite Hermaeus Mora, she claimed, but the rest confused him.

He heard a familiar sound from outside, a guttural roar that shook his very being, and he was on his feet and out of the tent before he could stop himself. The other was on her feet as well, clutching a familiar dagger. A dragon, massive and sparkling like thousands of rubies, circled overhead.

A shout burst from her lips, shocking him as he heard her speak in the only way she could. “ _Joor Zah Frul!_ ” Miraak did not know that one. It was a sour thought.

The dragon flinched as her thu’um hit it, crumpling its wings and bringing it to the ground. There, the two dragonborn waited. The woman leapt on to the beast, digging her dagger into its eyes as it roared. Miraak reached for his sword and realized he was entirely unarmed. He realized, with a curse, that the woman must’ve taken his weapons when he was unconscious.

He summoned ice into his hand, shooking spikes at the creature. He nearly shouted, but knew that it would hit the woman as well from where she attacked the head of the dragon. He thought about doing it anyway, but decided against it.

The dragon roared with agony as the woman dug her dagger under its scales, stabbing at its nose. It shook its head wildly, and she clutched hard with the other arm, as it swung its body around. It’s crumpled wing managed to catch Miraak and toss him belly-first into the snow. He groaned in agony as his wound reopened, a sharp pain flooding through him and fresh blood staining his bandages.

The dragon had fallen by the time that Miraak managed to get to his feet. The other was uninjured. After a moment, the dragon’s soul escaped and was unsure where to go. Miraak fought, willing the soul towards himself. He was the more injured party, he needed it more. After a moment, the dragon’s soul went into her instead.

In a pique of rage, Miraak attacked her.

“You still think you’re the superior dragonborn?” He rushed her, trying to kick her legs out from underneath her. “I should’ve killed you in Apocrypha when we first met.”

She dodged him easily, for his impulsiveness made him clumsy and predictable, and her arm lashed out, the heel of her hand hitting his chest so hard he lost his breath. He fell back, humiliated and gasping. She stood over him, one hand grasping at the front of his robes, and beat him bare fisted through his mask under her knuckles bled.

He must have lost some strength after leaving Apocrypha. Being bested so easily was unlike him. He felt himself slipping out of consciousness again as she grabbed his arms, and with surprising strength, dragged him back to the tent and his bedroll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me at my new skyrim themed tumblr blog, @bosmerarrow


End file.
